More Than One Can Chew
by tiltedsyllogism
Summary: It turns out there is one thing Phryne isn't good at.


Dot volunteered to cancel her weekend off, but that was nonsense. It was her mother's birthday, and she and Phryne had made the arrangement nearly a month ago.

"Are you sure, Miss?" Dot asked, again, for the third time since breakfast had started.

"Really, Dot," Phryne replied, "I'll be ifine./i It's only a weekend." She took a delicate sip of tea. "Honestly, you make me feel like a perfect slavedriver. You're not always this afraid to leave me alone, are you?"

"No, Miss." Dot clutched hard at her own teacup, the way she did when she was anxious. "It's just…" she looked up at Phryne. "With Mister Butler laid out with that cold…"

"Yes, it's too bad, but it's nothing to worry about. A bit of rest will have him fixed right up."

"No, I mean…" Dot leaned in, as if disclosing an important secret. "It's the dinner party."

Dot was a clever girl, and of course she had put her finger on the exact thing. Mister Butler was a man without peer, but he did take ill at the most inconvenient times. Only the month before, Phryne had been required to attend the opera in her crimson silk instead of the purple jacquard, because Mister Butler had been abed with a cough and unable to send Bert and Cec to the milliner's to retrieve the appropriate chapeau. She had recovered magnificently, of course—as had Mister Butler himself— but the whole affair was not without its disappointments. And now, on the very morning of her little going-away party for Veronique, she was to be deprived of his magnificent culinary skills.

In truth, the whole affair was very trying. The party itself could not be delayed, for Veronique sailed for France the following afternoon. But one could not secure a decent caterer on same-day notice, and Phryne herself had no culinary experience as such. On any other evening, she would have called upon Dot to teach her the basics and help her along in producing a respectable meal. But this would require canceling Dot's weekend furlough to Abbotsford, which would disappoint Dot terribly and incur the wrath of the entire Williams clan. Besides—and more to the point—to do so would be to concede defeat, which was something the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher never did.

"Why Dot," declared Phryne, mustering an air of astonishment. "Surely you don't doubt that I can pull together a meal on my own?"

"I…" Dot trailed off, chewing fiercely at her lower lip as if it might be forced to reveal new information under pressure.

"After all, it's only four people," Phryne continued. "No, you must go to your mother in Abbotsford. I wouldn't dream of breaking up the family gathering. I'll do perfectly fine on my own." She patted Dot's hand reassuringly. After all, I am a very quick study." She gave a conspiratorial, catlike smile, the one so reliably preceded her magnificent successes. Anyone who knew her could recognize that smile as the precursor to splendid things.

Dot opened her mouth and then closed it again. "I'll… just go pack my things," she said at last, and fled the table.

Bert and Cec delivered the groceries just after two, which gave Phryne plenty of time to survey the yield and design a plausible meal. Mister Butler's master plan for the evening was unknown to her—she had learned early to entrust her meals wholly to his vision—but it could be largely reconstructed from the ingredients that had been ordered. The leg of lamb was quite plainly to be roasted. She was less certain of the intended destiny of the potatoes, but surely they could be combined with last week's cheese in an elegant gratin. The carrots and onions would go quite nicely into the roasting pan with the lamb. She was quite certain that she had witnessed Mister Butler remove just such a pan from the oven, and there was no reason why she couldn't do the same.

That left only dessert. It would likely be a mistake, she knew, to attempt to reproduce Mister Butler's celebrated strawberry jam cake, on such short notice. But Dot had assured her that there were eggs in the refrigerator—enough for a pavlova, which (Dot had insisted, hanging off the edge of the cab, seemingly reluctant to leave) would reportedly be far simpler to assemble.

There, that was everything arranged. She put the meat and fruit into the refrigerator and arranged the vegetables neatly on the table for good measure. Mac, Jack and Veronique were not due until seven o'clock, with the expectation of drinks before the meal, and the clock had not yet chimed two-thirty: there was even time for a beauty nap before she got down to work. Phryne nodded to herself and set off toward her boudoir. This was going to be easier than she thought.

It was just before four o'clock when Phryne returned to the kitchen. She had dressed for dinner to save herself the time later, for she knew that cooking could be quite an absorbing business. The thought had occurred that she might not finish quite on time, and that Jack would arrive (and it would be Jack, he was by far the most punctual of the evening's guests) in time to find her putting the finishing touches on her culinary creations, herself having achieved an uncharacteristic but pleasing blush from the heat of the kitchen. The thought was not unpleasant, and it urged against undue haste. True art took time, as she well knew. Though she must remember to take the apron off as soon as it was required of her to be picturesque as well as capable.

She began with the pavlova, which Dot had advised her she must do. Phryne carefully set the oven dial to the noted temperature, feeling very virtuous for remembering to do so first. It was a bit of a job to separate the egg whites from the yolks, but the recipe book was very stern on the matter, and at last, after about ten minutes and eight eggs, there was roughly six eggs' worth of whites in the bowl. Next came the whisking, which turned out to be very boring. She was chagrined to discover, five minutes in, that her arm was quite tired from the repetitive movement—yet the egg whites had gained barely any lift. She rubbed at her shoulder and then resumed her efforts, resolved to stick it out.

At last, the whipping of the egg whites was done—the least interesting whipping she had ever been a party to, she thought. The finished product was rather more like soft mounds than the stiff peaks described in the recipe, but surely such turn of phrase was there for dramatic emphasis. Phryne set the bowl aside and went looking for the baking-paper. She finally hunted it up in a drawer in the built-in, then returned to consult the recipe about baking. There were more ingredients to go in with the egg whites, it turned out, so she mixed these in carefully and then spooned the mixture onto the paper-lined baking tray. The egg whites did not hold their shape quite so well as the recipe suggested, but slithered outward into a wide, flattish pancake. Perhaps it would puff up again in the oven.

With the egg mixture in the oven, there was only the fruit and the cream to attend to. The thought of more whisking made her arm ache, so she put the cream back into the refrigerator for later consideration. Perhaps they would have a lighter sort of dessert. She wondered whether unwhisked cream might be drizzled on after as a sort of glaze. Yes, that was a very clever solution.

The pavlova was not due to come out of the oven for another forty minutes, so she set to work on the potatoes for the gratin. Peeling potatoes turned out to require a great deal of skill, and once she had trimmed off all of the skin (as well as the pinkish bits from the knife, which she had forgotten to rinse of strawberry juice), the remaining substance was not much larger than a doorknob. Phryne sighed, feeling for a moment overcome. There were some particular techniques that simply could not be replicated at a moment's notice, even if the general project was one of whose success she was fully confident. She would, she realized, be required to take the yeoman's option and serve potatoes with their skins still on. Oh, well—the resulting gratin would be a bit less elegant, but no less delicious.

She was halfway through scrubbing the potatoes when the kitchen timer went off. The pavlova looked a bit wobbly (and still quite flat), so she consulted the cookbook once again. Now here was a wrinkle: the recipe stated that the pavlova must be left to cool in the oven for a full hour. An hour! Phryne checked the time, and felt a wave of dismay. It was nearly six! The lamb, as her cookbook had instructed her, would require two hours in the oven.

The potatoes were left to languish in a mad rush to bundle the lamb and vegetables into the roasting pan. Fortunately, it was a quick preparation: the vegetables went in whole (which was surely an acceptable culinary tradition in some countries) and the lamb itself had been trimmed by the butcher. Phryne nearly dropped the pavlova in her haste to remove it from the oven, but soon enough it was cooling on the counter and the lamb had replaced it. Weak with relief, Phryne allowed herself a moment's rest and refreshment in the parlor. That had been a bit of a scare, she thought, as she sipped her brandy, but all in all she had managed quite tidily. And perhaps the lamb would cook quickly.

Phryne felt much restored when she returned to the kitchen half an hour later. The fragrance of lamb greeted her when she opened the oven door, assuring her that it was cooking away just as it should. The pavlova still looked a bit sad, so she piled the fruit on top of it, which improved its appearance drastically. With those things attended to, there was only the gratin to worry about. Her cookbook did not have an entry for potatoes au gratin, but Phryne felt confident that she could put one together. Dot had often remarked that it was impossible to go wrong with potatoes, and it was, in essence, a very simple dish.

She put a pot of water on the range top to boil and reapplied herself to the task of scrubbing the potatoes clean. The water hadn't reached a boil yet, so she went rummaging in the refrigerator for some cheese and came up with a lump of cheddar. It would need to be in smaller pieces, she knew, to be mixed in with the potatoes properly. She took out a clean knife and sliced the cheese into finger-sized sticks, and set them in a little pile on a place. Then she noticed that the water had boiled, so she put the potatoes into the pot. She still wasn't sure what to do with the cheese, but that would no doubt become apparent once the potatoes were ready.

There was a knock at the door. Half a moment later, Phryne recollected that there was nobody but herself to answer it, and dashed to the front door to welcome her first guest. She was already in the foyer when she had the presence of mind to remove the apron, which she stuffed onto the little marble-topped table behind the flowers.

"Hello, Jack," she said, as effortlessly calm as if she had spent the past hour lounging in the parlor.

"Miss Fisher!" Jack was wearing one of her favorite ties, but even that was less noteworthy than the surprise on his face. "Where is Mister Butler?"

"Sick, I'm afraid," she replied. "Please come in."

The Inspector hung his own coat on the peg in the front hall, followed her into the parlor, and accepted a tumbler of brandy.

"How has your day been?" he asked, once they were seated.

"Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that," she replied gaily. "I haven't got a case at present, and Dot is in Abbotsford for the weekend, so it's just been me."

"Sounds quite relaxing." He sipped his brandy. "If Mister Butler is ill, and Dot is away, who's doing the cooking?"

"Oh, I am," answered Phryne nonchalantly.

"You are," he repeated.

"That's right. Nothing exceptionally complicated, but I think it will be a lovely meal." She smiled at him over the rim of her brandy.

"I'm sure it will be," said he.

Phryne could never quite tell, in these moments, whether the Inspector was entirely sincere, or indeed whether his assurances were meant as an expression of anything other than modest hope. Well, whatever his expectations, he was sure to be impressed. She smiled to herself, picturing the beautiful spread of dishes upon the dining room table and the admiring pleasure of her gathered friends.

Not that any of the dishes had yet quite achieved that picturesque state.

"If you'll please excuse me," said Phryne. "I'll be back in just a moment."

"Of course," Jack replied.

Phryne stealthily grabbed the apron on her way back to the kitchen and dumped it onto the shelf of the built-in. The potatoes were boiling away on the stove, which seemed all right. A quick check of the oven revealed that the lamb was still quite pink, although it had been in for nearly an hour. That didn't seem quite right. But what was she to do about it? She had barely a moment to think on this when the doorbell rang and, flustered, she went to answer it. It was Mac, who bore in hand a pink box bound up in string.

"Good evening, darling," said Phryne brightly. "I am afraid I am rather short-staffed tonight."

"Yes, I've heard," said Mac, as she stepped inside. "I've brought you something."

"That's lovely, I'm sure it's lovely, thank you," said Phryne. "You can just set it right on the table in the parlor. I've got to go back to the kitchen for just a moment, please help yourself to…."

"Not to worry," Mac replied, "I can quite take care of myself."

"Jack's already here," Phryne said over her shoulder. "I'll be there in a moment. I'm just going to, um…." And with that she was around the corner, staring once again at the obstreperous oven.

Well, perhaps it was to be a very rare leg of lamb. In the meantime, she would assemble the gratin. She took up Mister Butler's favorite wooden spoon and, one by one, fished the potatoes out of the pot.

At first, they were simply too hot to slice—one burned finger was lesson enough. In a fit of inspiration, after nursing her finger under the cold tap of the sink, she ran cold water over the potatoes themselves, until they had ceased to steam. She returned to the table and set herself again to slicing them. To her horror, the potato collapsed into crumbles as soon as she put the knife through it. She tried again, with similar results. In great distress, she set the knife down. It would be boiled potatoes, then, which would be fine, if there was enough butter to go with them. Cold boiled potatoes. She sighed.

Once more the doorbell chimed.

"Will somebody please let Veronique in," Phryne cried, loudly but still with some dignity.

This was terrible. Her whole party was now assembled, and she had no idea when the lamb would be done. In the meantime, there was only cold potatoes—and the pavlova, which appeared upon closer examination to have collapsed under the weight of the chopped berries, which themselves had begun to look quite tired. It was not a dish she dared set in front of anybody for whose health she was concerned, let alone anyone whose good opinion she hope to retain.

Leaning against the table, she dropped her head and sighed.

"Miss Fisher?" came the inquiring voice of Jack Robinson.

"Everything's fine," she declared, a bit more warmly than she had intended. She met his gaze firmly and calmly, to communicate her control over the situation.

Jack nodded and handed her a tumbler of brandy, which she accepted with silent gratitude. Keeping his eyes firmly on her face, he slowly crossed the room and switched off the gas beneath the boiling pot that had been for the potatoes.

"So," he asked, "what do we have here?" He nodded at the bowl on the table. "Boiled potatoes, I see. That's something."

Phryne winced. "They're cold, I'm afraid. There's also the pavlova," she added, nodding toward the counter.

Jack spent several silent seconds inspecting the collapsed confection. "All right," he said at last. "And what's to be the main course?"

"There's a leg of lamb, with vegetables. But it doesn't seem to be cooking properly," she concluded, before the plaintive note that had crept into her voice could develop more fully. Best to quit while she was ahead, or at least not too far behind.

Jack opened the oven and peered inside. "How long has this been in here?"

"Over an hour."

Jack scrutinized the oven carefully, then nodded at it. "Was this setting intentional?" he asked. "It's quite low for lamb."

"Is it?" Had something gone wrong? Had she jostled it? She came over to examine the dial. But no, it was just as she had set it at the beginning of the afternoon's cooking, when….

In the same moment, they both glanced back toward the wilting pavlova.

"Miss Fisher," said Jack solemnly. "Is it possible that you neglected to raise the temperature of the oven before putting in the lamb?"

"It seems to be possible, yes," she answered meekly.

"All right." Jack picked up the plate of chopped cheese. "And this is…."

"That's for the potatoes."

He looked up at her, frowning. "I was going to make a gratin," Phryne said, smiling ruefully.

His brow wrinkled further. "Then why did you…" he set down the plate of cheese and gave a small nod. "You know what, it's not important."

"Not really, no," she replied glumly, watching the mesmerizing eddy of brandy in its glass as she swirled it. "I've ruined everything."

"Not at all." Phryne tore her eyes from the contemplation of her brandy glass to see Jack rolling up his sleeves. "There's nothing here that can't be salvaged." He paused. "Well, maybe the pavlova." He set the offending dessert on the counter next to the sink, then reached into the cabinet below for a pan.

"Jack," said Phryne, in unaffected astonishment, "what are you doing?"

"Cooking," he replied, as he began to chop away at the lamb. "You're halfway to shepherd's pie as it is. There's no point in letting all of this go to waste." He paused and looked up at her. "Would you pass me a mixing bowl?" And then, observing her uncertainty: "In the cabinet under the china."

She meekly fetched the bowl and handed it to him. "How do you know so much about imy/i kitchen, Jack Robinson?"

"Because, Miss Fisher," he returned, "I pay attention."

"And I don't, I suppose," said Phryne, with some vexation.

"Of course you do. Just not to household matters." He put the last of the chopped lamb in the bowl and looked up at her. "It may not be the roast you'd dreamed of, but I make quite a decent shepherd's pie."

She could not help smiling at that. "I don't doubt it a bit."

"I'm pleased to be of service. And now, Miss Fisher, if you will cut up those vegetables, I can get started cooking this mince."

The vegetables were a bit soft, and it was hard to get the knife into the onion, but soon they were done and added to the pan. Phryne stood over Jack's shoulder, watching the lamb brown and fetching additives from the cupboard or refrigerator as he asked for them. After a few minutes more, he stepped away from the simmering pan and began to mash the potatoes.

"Would you like some help with that?" asked Phryne.

"It's no trouble," said he. "Nearly done. Now, if you'll just get a baking dish, we can begin to assemble this. Mince on the bottom, potato on top. Then into the oven it goes."

"That's it?" Once again, she was astonished. After the mess of the afternoon, it all seemed suspiciously simple.

"That's it. We can even join the others in the parlor while it cooks, so long as we watch the clock."

"Oh!" Phryne had completely forgotten. "Oh Jack, I'm such a terrible host. I must have been gone half an hour. What will they think of me?"

"We'll think you got into some trouble in the kitchen," declared Mac, as she marched in from the dining room with a glass in one hand and the gift-box in the other. "Veronique's just topping up. Not to worry, it's been barely ten minutes. But we decided it would be better fun in here than biding our time in the parlor, waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Phryne groaned, dropping into a chair. "Oh Mac, you don't know the half of it. If it were up to me, we'd be eating—" she gestured helplessly, expansively— "raw lamb and flat, soggy pavlova." She shook her head. "It turns out I'm a complete disaster as a cook."

Mac chuckled as she took the next chair over. "Of course you are, darling. Luckily for all of us, you've got plenty of other skills."

At this moment Veronique appeared in the doorway, brandy decanter in hand. "Good evening, Phryne," she said. "I 'ope you don't mind that I have brought this."

"Not at all, it seems perfectly called for." Phryne jumped up and kissed her friend's cheek, then relieved her of her burden and topped up both their glasses. "A fine party this has turned out to be."

"That's not a very nice thing to say about Inspector Robinson's cooking," said Mac, who had surveyed the activity in the kitchen and taken good note. "How long 'til it's out of the oven?" she asked him.

Phryne had completely forgotten that a second version of dinner was in progress, but now saw that the baking pan had disappeared (presumably into the oven) and that Jack was gathering dishes to put into the sink.

"It's just gone in," he said to Mac, "so probably twenty minutes."

"Good enough," Mac said, nodding approval. And now—" she set the gift-box on the table and pushed it toward Phryne— "open this."

Inside the box was a lamington, prim and perfect and surrounded by an appealing snowfall of coconut.

"From that bakery down the street from the college," Mac said. "Best cakes in the city."

Phryne laughed weakly. "You knew, didn't you."

Mac patted her hand. "Written in your stars, I'm afraid."

Phryne looked from Mac, to Veronique, to Jack, who was now standing next to the stove and appeared to have put on the apron when she wasn't looking. "One of you could have told me, you know," she said, just a trifle tartly.

"We wouldn't have wanted to spoil your fun," said Jack.

"Besides, Phryne," added Veronique, "now there will be shepherd's pie. Three weeks already I am in Australia, and I have not yet eaten this dish that is so very Australian."

"It's perfect, Phryne," said Mac. "It's just the thing for a small gathering of friends. We don't need anything fancy."

"That's not strictly correct," said Jack, eyes on Phryne's face. "After all, Miss Fisher, we will always need you."

She smiled, mollified. "I suppose I am fancy enough."

"That you are," said Mac. "Come on, let's set the table."


End file.
